Sister Wisdom, the ravens, and the Tower of London

Sister Wisdom, the ravens and the Tower of London

Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls? Luke 12:24 (KJV) 

The ravens are bored, apparently. They are bored and they are restless and they are indicating that they might move on.

Then where will we be?

For at least 330 years six ravens in the Tower of London have guarded the Monarchy, and the country itself, from ruin. They even have staff who keep them safe and attend to all their dietary needs. This year their world changed. A steady stream of tourists had previously engaged their inquisitive natures. They were content and well entertained. Colour, sound and tasty tidbits kept them cooperative with their captivity. The visitors stopped coming when the borders closed and the skies went quiet. Ravens are creatures of habit. If their world changes, why would the ravens stay? And what will happen to England when they go? 

Such are the many things shaking and changing all around us in these times. Seen and unseen, written about and as yet hidden in plain sight. Such is the reordering of our world. 

Long are the nights when you’re thinking about these things.

Consider the ravens… Sister Wisdom leant toward me in the grey hours of morning and began to whisper kindly into my rambling half-sleeping thoughts. I’m aware that she’s sitting on my bed with her legs curled up underneath her. She’s waiting as she often does. When I see her, and when I engage with her, the grey hours can become a feast of knowing. 

Consider the ravens. The invitation wakes me up. I love ravens, but that’s another story. The ravens in the Tower had been on my mind for a while. In 1675 the royal astronomer wanted them removed as they were interfering with his work. King Charles the 2nd took counsel from an unnamed sage and refused to move the ravens. They were, according to this sage, guardians of both the Monarchy and of the land itself. Since that time until today there have been 6 ravens appointed to live in the Tower. Lately the newspapers reported that lockdown had unsettled these guardians. 

Come see, Sister Wisdom said. Take your time. I close my eyes and I find myself standing on the causeway that’s built over the moat between two of the Towers. The date on the top of the port-cullis reads 1326. I watch Sister Wisdom trace the numbers with her finger tips. She’s remembering a day that was only moments ago for her. 

Even in the grey hours it seems busy with staff and family members moving around. It is a city within a city that covers 18 acres in total.  Many changes have happened over the centuries. The waters carry stores and provisions through a gate under the Palace. The river gave the Tower self-sufficiency in times of unrest. I had no idea it was so expansive. 

We duck inside a small oratory. One of many.  See this, she says, they create a hidden space to pray, and use it as a place for murder. And she sighs and moves on. Come! She begins to run, laughing, through throne rooms and arches and past four poster beds. Spiral staircases and stone! So much stone. More than stones, she whispers, stories! They love their traditions. 

We’re standing in front of the white tower. 950 years old, 90 feet tall. She grabs hold of my right hand. Suddenly I’m sitting on the roof looking at four turrets and a weather vane with the Royal standard on it. We’re high above the Dungeons that serve as a memory and a warning. I can see the River Thames, a grey ribbon below. I remember my Grandad telling me that he learned to swim in this river. I’m guessing it was more blue than grey in his childhood. 

We’re quiet together for a while up here, just watching. Sister Wisdom makes silence a good weighted blanket around my shoulders. My breathing changes as she stills me. I sense her pleasure. She loves it here. She loves well. Our stories, our creations, our hopes and dreams. Our need for thick walls and prayer spaces. Our country. 

As I stay in her pleasure I feel a warm and slow rhythm swell around me and through me.  I’m here with her inside the heart of God. And I see the view from the tower open up, and London, England, the tiny globe, all inside His chamber. For a moment my vision is a blur of red hues, then I blink and the Thames is once again in view. 

Love wins, she says. And some day, people will do all things well. 

I turn to look at her properly. It’s not an easy thing to do. She begins to roll up her long sleeves, and I notice that her skin is covered with multi-coloured tattoos. There are delicate and intricate pictures in different styles. Some are the thoughtful works of artists, some the simple work of children. There are words in many languages and scripts. I collect beauty and stories in many ways she says, as she draws my attention to some Latin words in the crease of her elbow. These words are carved into the wall of the Salt room in this very tower by a former prisoner. They read:

AD MAIORUM DEI GLORIA: To the greater glory of God.

I realise how much Sister Wisdom has seen through the decades in every corner of this globe. I marvel at her arms as the sun illuminates them. They are decorated in our finest moments. I long to see all she sees and yet still love so extravagantly. 

She winks and jumps off the roof, catching my hand and pulling me into her momentum. We land on the ground outside the little window that serves as a door to one of the raven’s keeps. A ladder runs up to the window. It seems absurd in a way, and it makes me laugh out loud. I remember where we began. What about the ravens? I ask her. Is there truth in the legend? Do these birds matter?

Yes, she says.

And no. 

We walk on in silence while I feel my clumsy thoughts like a fog descending and begin to lag behind her. As we get to the gift shop she turns to face me. You know, she says. I have many visitors, but very few friends. 

I’d begun to love her wide and laughing face, even though I was slow to look at her too often. I’d never before seen pain change her eyes to the colour of deep sea, and draw lines across her skin, writing the agony of a mother forgotten. I’m not so good in the face of anger, but something compels me to reach out my hands and hold hers as she sings a low lament. The song goes: 

How long, dupes, will you love being duped,

And scoffers lust scoffing,

And fools hate knowledge? 

Turn back to my rebuke.

Look I would pour out my spirit to you,

I would make my words known to you.

I’m arrested by the thought that her spirit and her words could be mine. Even in my clumsiness and questions. She sings on:

Because I called and you resisted,

I reached out my hand and none paid heed,

And you flung aside all my counsel,

And you did not want my rebuke.

I, too, shall laugh at your ruin,

I shall mock when what you feared comes,

When what you feared comes like a disaster, 

and your ruin like a whirlwind descends

When straits and distress come upon you.

Then they will call me and I shall not answer,

They will seek me and they will not find me.

Because they have hated knowledge,

And the Lord’s fear they did not choose.

They did not want my counsel,

They spurned all my rebuke.

And they ate from the fruit of their way,

And from their own counsels they were sated.

For the waywardness of dupes will kill them

And the smugness of fools will destroy them.

But he who heeds me will dwell secure,

And tranquil from the fear of harm.  

Proverbs 1:22-33. 

The lament ends, but the sound of a hollow moan lingers on. It takes a moment before I realise the sound is coming from my mouth, my lungs. I feel foolish in the silence after the song and red-faced laugh a little. She laughs too, and I throw my arms around her wiry frame. 

She stands back, wipes her face and runs her fingers through her hair. Ha! She says. 

Yes. The ravens matter because guardians matter. Stories matter. History is a

rich and good teacher. When the winds of change blow and guardians leave their posts, stay close to me Cassie. Listen hard and longer than ever before. 

And no. There is a Guardian of the ravens, and you are even more precious to Him than those curious birds. He will never leave His post. He calls time on eras, leaders, and even doctrines and the wisdom of people. 

She opens her hands, and rests them palm up on her lap. 

I know Him. We speak as you sleep, and He shares dreams and longings with me. His heart He puts in my hands and I am free to share all of it with you. As you seek it. As you seek me. 

Now go rest, because there is work to be done. As you rest remember this: the ravens will leave. The monarchy and country will shake. Guardians must rise up. The longing of the father is that guardians rise who have sought me out as friend and companion. Then those in the land will dwell secure and tranquil from the fear of harm.

And the ravens can return to the skies. Free and fed by the father. A sign and a wonder. 

There’s always a kiss and a blessing before she leaves me to ponder.  Sister, friend and the one who gives herself as a gift to any who seek her. Face to the ground I thank the Father, I kiss the Son, and I ask the Spirit to fill me again as I sleep. As children we learn to rest. As guardians we are called to rise.